The Raven
by AeriShadow
Summary: Rho Penhallow is a 19-year-old bard in a well esteemed mercenary guild. After assassinating a man thought to be caught up in a plot to kill the Inquisitor, Rho is contacted by The Nightingale, who enlists her to shadow the Inquisitor. Rho must find and kill the rats within the Inquisition without inflicting chaos, or letting the Inquisitor catch wind of this plot.
1. Chapter 1: Birds

The Raven

* * *

Red eyes pierced through the tree-line.

Rain pelted against trees and soil. A raven preened itself on top of a thick branch. Its eyes locked on to a hut. The dense canopy devoured the remaining moonlight. Torches framed a muddy path, the flames smothered by rain. The bird seemed untouched by the rainfall. It continued to stare at the hut, watching the fire within cast haunted shadows against wooden walls. A figure traipsed back and forth, his body making the shadows bob sporadically. The bird lurked for a moment, then twitched. Its eyes, a sinister crimson, narrowed as it let out a gravelly croak.

Rho crouched beside a pile of soaking lumber. She could feel the raindrops begin to penetrate into the knees of her trousers. Black leather, bear hide. She traced her wet fingers along the dagger sheath that nestled against her left hip bone. The metal sheaths left her sides bruised more often than not, but having them so close to her hands left no margin for error. She glanced up towards the thicket of trees. The leaves were swatting at the moonlight, consuming it in tiny mouthfuls.

She tugged at her handwraps, still bloody from the last contract, and pulled the sleeves of her coat up to her wrists. She swiveled around, and grasped at the corner of the lumber pile. The wood emitted a musty stench from her touch. Stifling a cough, she peered around the other side of the lumber pile.

A marshy path contorted itself in front of her. Torches stood intermittent alongside the trail. Most were doused by the rain, but those that remained trembled meekly, shivering. Rho's gaze traveled from the path to a paltry hut, illuminated inside by what she assumed was a firepit. She wiped her face with one hand and breathed in. The air felt heavy. She flicked her tongue across her lips. Her bottom lip was cracked and bloodied. She wiped off the excess spit from her mouth. Her thumbs danced around the pommels of her daggers as she slinked forward. A routine to keep her alert.

The hut was small, but the moonlight and impending thunderclouds gave it a cadaverous façade. A figure skulked in circles. A man. His metal boots clunked against the floorboards, overwhelming the sound of the crackling firepit.

Rho slithered up the steps, glancing over her shoulder. No one was behind her. No one was around for miles. No one except for her, and the man. The barrage of rain made her silent in the blackness. She looked for his pacing shadow, but saw no movement. He had stopped, she guessed. She slid to a halt at the top of the steps.

A violent boom of thunder sent a shiver flying up Rho's spine. She twisted her body completely, and stared out into the thickness of trees.

She could hear the vile squawk of a raven above her, but could not see where it was. The sound danced along the hairs on the back of her neck, making her impulsively grab at her daggers. She scowled up at where she thought the bird was, and turned around again. She slid one of her daggers out of its hilt, and pushed open the hut door.

* * *

A man sat hunched over a pile of parchments strewn across a wooden table. He was scribbling furiously, and mumbling curses under his breath. The fire crackled loudly, startling the man and making him jolt upright in his seat. He let out a nervous whimper and continued scribbling. He covered his hands over his writing as if he thought someone was watching him. He mumbled more words to himself, cursing the gods and the weather. Thunder clapped in the distance, making the man jolt upright again.

A blade met his throat.

The man sucked air and steadied himself, "It appears that The Nightingale doesn't think me a proper target," he spat.

Rho loosened her grip on her dagger, letting the blade caress the grooves of the man's esophagus. His words were confident, but his shivering body told her otherwise. His eyes averted the blade, and met her fiery gaze instead. She pressed the blade harder into his throat.

"It's.. a shame," he croaked through uneasy breaths, "she hasn't the brass to send her own men to kill me."

Rho reached for her other dagger and slid it out of its sheath.

"Ah..." he huffed, "Giving me the silent treatment?"

She inhaled, content in her quietness.

"So, what.. are you? A thug? Mercenary? Bard?" the man began laughing and sputtering, "An... assassin, perhaps?" He grinned, his teeth resembling old bones.

Rho wrapped her arm around his neck, the tip of her blade resting on his earlobe. The man made no attempt to move, no attempt to fight back. He must have been waiting for her.

The man took a deep, rickety breath, "Send the Inquisition my regards, girl. Maker knows they need it, sending in a no-good whore like you to do their dirty work." He growled, and spat on her boot.

"Stop it," she said. She dragged her blade across the man's neck, and twisted his head with a sickening crack. "You're making me blush."

She watched as the man toppled to the ground, lifeless. She used the toe of her boot to nudge his chin in her direction. His uninhabited eyes stared past her - through her. No man is as inelegant and vulnerable as when he lies dead, she thought. She felt no remorse, no sympathy for the man. He was but another target from another anonymous source. Another body trailing in the wake of her reputation. She had felt nothing for this man. She had felt nothing for a long time.

She kicked the chair aside and placed her bloody dagger on the writing desk. She leaned over the desk, eyeing the strewn writings and empty ink bottles. The papers seemed unorganized, as if he was looking for something. Blood spattered across several pages, like paint blotches. Rho thumbed through several piles until she grabbed a single page, hastily scribbled and covered in blood.

 _K,_

 _The Inquisition has taken hold of the Hinterlands. It seems they do not suspect me. I will assume the role of Inquisition scout whilst I wait for the signal. The target remains at Skyhold, but is said to make an appearance within the week. Everything seems to be going swimmingly._

 _I fear the Nightingale has caught wind of our plans, however._

 _Regards,_

The letter cut off at a half-written, illegible signature. Rho eyed the letter up and down, then began to fold it and shove it into her boot.

She swiveled on her heel, grabbing her dagger and walking over to the man. She kneeled beside him and reached into her coat pockets. Blood began soaking into the floorboards beside her. The man lay sprawled out on the floor. His head had flopped in a direction it should never have gone. He was clad in shades of green and orange. A silver emblem held his cloak pinned together. An eye with a sword through the middle. Tendrils surrounded the depiction like a sun. Inquisition?

She shrugged and pulled her own emblem pin out of her coat pocket. It depicted two clashing swords with a snake wrapping itself around and through them. Her guild's emblem. She grabbed the man and shifted his limp body into a log position. She took her emblem and enclosed it in his palms. If he were not stained red, it would have looked like he was sleeping.

Taking a deep breath, she wiped the blood from her dagger onto the man's cloak, and stood up. She looked around the room. Rain continued to patter on the rooftop, and the thunder became increasingly quieter. She glanced at the firepit. It looked pristine, as if had been continuously attended to. The flames warmed her frozen fingers, and cast a homely glow against her fair skin. Now it was she that created the dancing shadows against the walls.

The anticipation of sharing her kill with the guild made her smirk. She imagined them ritualistically sitting in a new tavern, sipping a new brew and embellishing their latest gruesome endeavor. She needn't imagine it, since she knew it was exactly what she was going to do the moment she returned to her guild. Her boys. She sympathized for the patrons who had to hear about the things her guild was doing. There was nothing the patrons could do, of course. They could not warn the authorities, because the guild had no name. They didn't need one.

She pulled at her handwraps again, adjusting them to her liking. She wiggled her thumb around her right palm. She felt the hard lump of a locket, its chains still nestled inside the cloth. She was relieved it had not broken. She did the same thing after every fight, hoping it would not break. It never did. She had had it for three years, and it had not broken, or even cracked.

Rho brushed herself off, and turned around to give the man one last stony glare before leaving. She spat on him.

As she stepped outside, the rain stopped. She stood on the porch for a moment, preparing herself for the trip back. She did up the buttons on her coat, and pulled up the black cloth that was around her neck until it covered her nose and mouth. Just as she began walking down the steps, a white flash blinded her. She staggered backwards, her body slamming against the cabin door. Lightning.

She clasped her head in her hands, rubbing her eyes. She held them closed, groaning from her tumble. As she began opening her eyes, she heard a low coo.

She opened her eyes and lifted her head. A bird stood in front of her on the top step, staring at her. It was a raven. The same that had squawked at her before, perhaps.

Rho held the birds gaze. Its eyes were red, much like the feathers on the top of its head. She swatted her hand to shoo it, but the bird would not move.

"What are -"

She noticed that the bird had something tied around its leg. Parchment. A note of some sort. She reached her hand out to the bird, expecting it to flinch.

The raven stood still, and lifted its leg to her.

Rho gracefully untied the letter from the bird's foot, admiring its talons.

She looked the parchment up and down. At the top of the note, there was an image of a cluster of birds all taking flight. It was an image that Rho had never seen before.

 _My Lady Penhallow,_

 _Well done._

 _Nightingale._

As her eyes glazed over the last words, she shot upright. Her head jolted around in every direction. The raven had vanished into the night. All of the torches along the path had burnt out. She was alone.


	2. Chapter 2: Drinks

"Top it up for you, m'lady?" A large, mousy-haired woman scuttled about a bar table, wiping up bits of spilled ale. She leaned over to stare into the empty tankard.

Rho nodded to the woman, handing off her cup and mouthing a 'thank you'. Couldn't have the boys catching wind of her manners, she thought. She smirked to herself. She could have waited for a barmaid to come to the table where she and her men were sitting, but she knew how uncomfortable her men would have made them. Or _were_ making them. She shoved her hands inside her coat pockets and fiddled around with loose coin while she waited.

The woman turned briskly out of an archway, full tankard in hand, and slid it gracefully in front of Rho's face.

Rho nodded briefly at the woman, glancing down at her ragged clothes and dirty apron. There was hardly anyone in the tavern for the past two nights. Chaos must be bad for business, she thought.

She stared at the now full tankard of ale. She had taken the tie out of her hair, and let strands hang freely around her face. Longer pieces hair flowed across the bar table, swaying like chocolate ribbons as she moved her head. She had cleaned up her armor, and exchanged her handwraps for newer ones, relieving herself of any blood. _Immaculate appearance and unruffled demeanor_ , she recited to herself. She had yet to tell her boys of her recent endeavors. She needed to find the right words. The Grand Game was not prominent in Ferelden, but that did not stop any of them from playing it.

"Stop broodin', Penhallow!" A large man dressed in steel armor waved her over. He raised his tankard and lowered his eyebrows. His beard was as thick as his Starkhaven accent. "We've been waitin' for your sorry ass all night now."

Him, along with two other men and one girl, all stared at her, laughing drunkenly.

Rho grinned into her tankard and stood up. The chubby woman looked at her in bewilderment. Without acknowledging her, Rho removed five sovereigns from her coat pocket, and slid them across the bar. She took a swig of her ale, and returned to the table on the far side of tavern.

Rho approached her guild-mates, all nose-deep in their cups. Less than half of the guild had shown up, which she was partly okay with. Other duties, she thought to herself. That, or they were too hungover from previous evenings. The four of them sat at a round, wooden table. The armored man rose from his seat, and motioned for her to take his place.

"What happened after that?"

"Well, I took the Templar upstairs. Showed him what a Rivaini mage is made of."

"Was this before or after you slept with him?"

"A bit of both, really."

Rho walked up beside the girl and set her tankard down on the table.

"There she is!" The girl said, bubbling.

Rho pulled out the chair and seated herself. She lifted her feet off the floor to sit cross-legged.

"'Bout time. We've been waitin' to hear your story all night." The man said, inhaling his drink. The watery brew left a trail across his copper mustache.

"Gotta keep you in suspense, Snake." Rho smirked. The way his chest swelled when someone said his name amused her.

Snake was the one who weaved around and through the daggers. He watched his bards and his mercenaries and his thugs, controlling the conflict, setting up the targets. He was not the founder of the guild, and he was no bard or mercenary or thug. He was merely the Snake. The Snake on the emblem.

"The illustrious Rhododendron Penhallow graces us with her presence once again." Leia, the vuluptuous, dark-haired mage swooned. She beamed, grabbing Rho's arm gently and breathing ale-scented giggles into her ear. Even intoxicated, Leia spoke like she was within earshot of a noble.

"You make it sound like I'm not even a real person." Rho rubbed Leia's knee lightly, reciprocating the drunken girl's affection.

"I've been in a fight or two with you, Penhallow. Perhaps not." Aesar, a pale elf, spoke bluntly from underneath Snake's hulking shadow. He conjured a small flame underneath the table. His hair was graying, and his eyes were the same fluorescent green as the gem on his extravagant staff.

"You'll scare away the patrons." Rho snarked, motioning around the empty tavern.

"I don't know if you've seen Redcliffe lately, sweetheart," he said, "but us mages can do just about anything right now."

Snake glugged down the rest of his drink and slammed the tankard onto the table, "How about _you mages_ get us some more ale?"

Leia snorted gleefully and raised her tankard, igniting the well-known eye roll from Aesar. Snake belched and leaned against the wall.

Rho groaned into her mug and took another swig. She wasn't drunk enough for them.

 _"Weeellll,_ Penhallow. What happened up there?" Rylan Abbot sat across from her. He seemed to be the only one not drinking. Instead, he was polishing his silverite bow and flashing coy glances in her direction. He tousled his dirty blonde hair and leaned on the table, awaiting her response.

"C'mon, Rhododendron," Leia sang, her drunkenness pushing aside her minstrel mannerisms. She nudged her chair closer to Rho and nestled her head into her shoulder.

Rho stared into her half-empty tankard and tried to think of the proper words to say. They would not regard her in such a way if they knew she had let that man say those things to her back at the hut. Disrespect her in such a way. Any assassin worth one's salt would have slit his throat before he could even speak, and Rho knew that. Any _bard_ knew that. In three years she had learned the proper skills, and learned them quickly. Quickly enough to not have her experience questioned by employing nobles. The man irked her into irrationalism.

She looked around the table. All eyes were on her, bright and blithely. They were not the eyes that played The Grand Game, the eyes she was so used to seeing. Alternatively, they were merely the eyes of four friends. The thought put her at ease. The alcohol too, perhaps.

Her tankard was nearly empty, a full swig left, maybe more. She took the cup and downed the whole thing. She clumsily set the tankard down on the table before speaking.

"He spat on my boot."

"He _didn't!_ "

"Right on it?"

Rho was beginning to feel the alcohol inside her, hot and happy, and stifled a giggle.

"What did you do?" Leia cooed, hanging onto Rho's arm.

She thought to herself before she spoke. The wave of drunkenness had surpassed, and her instincts returned, nipping at her tongue.

"Took him out. Quick and quiet," she said bluntly.

"That's it?" Rylan seemed unimpressed. The others exchanged frowns between each other.

"Wasn't worth it." She directed her words to the group, though she spoke to herself.

"Fair enough," Rylan said, amused.

To her surprise, the group did not interrogate further, and returned to chatting amongst themselves.

The stories they shared with each other had always reminded her, in a strange way, of the time she had to spend in the chantry with her family. The Game would always be playing silently in the background among her guild. Among her family, a similar game. Noble favour versus Chantry favour. There was no repentance for their sins. No higher power to seek help from. Just each other. They all played The Grand Game, but, for the most part, they were on the same side. A quiet respect, an unspoken oath, to guard ones back in a fight, treat each other as kin. The guild became her mother, her father, sister and brother. The time spent around a table at a tavern, telling each other of their adventures, was her time in the chantry. What she had lost in The Maker, she would try to find in her new family. But like any family, blood or otherwise, they did not need to know everything.

The barmaiden swept over the group with fresh tankards of ale. Rho glanced up at the woman as she placed the cup in front of her face.

The woman wiped the sweat from her brow and shook her apron. "On the house." She breathed. She turned to Rho and lowered her voice. "Thank you, Milady. May The Maker smile upon your graciousness."

Rho nodded to the woman. Her eyes scanned the table, hoping the group didn't catch what the woman had said.

She watched for a moment as the four of them laughed and conversed amongst each other. Sure used their drunken blathering as a means of escape, and silently excused herself.

The halls of the tavern were dark, lit by dim torches that hung from the walls. Rho grabbed a torch from its sconce and clasped it in one hand. She held the tankard in her other hand, trying not to spill as she walked tipsily to her bed chambers.

Once in her room, she set her tankard down on the bedside table, and lit the torches on either side of the room. The room itself was quite small, the bed taking up the majority of the space. She held tightly to the thought of sleeping with her limbs spread out in any direction she pleased.

She began undressing herself. First her boots, which she slid underneath her bed. Then her coat, folding it neatly and setting it down on a small chest by the door. She unbuttoned her leather armor and peeled herself from it. The armor dropped to the ground, leaving her standing in only her underclothes. She walked over to the end of the bed and opened up a small chest. She pulled out a pair of socks and an ivory tunic. She felt the cold wood beneath her feet, and attempted to put her socks on as quickly as she could. She swayed clumsily from side to side as she tried to dress herself. She had began unfolding the tunic when she heard footsteps by the door.

"No bathing before bed, Penhallow?"

Rho turned around, still unclothed, and saw Rylan leaning against the doorframe. He held a tankard in his hand and sipped it leisurely.

"And here I was just waiting for an invitation" Rho replied cooly. Rylan seemed unoffended by her lack of clothing. She silently appreciated his eye contact.

"Unfortunately for you, Milady" he smirked, "I've already bathed. All by myself."

Rho pouted theatrically. "Such a shame."

Rylan stepped inside the room, taking a swig of his ale. He averted his gaze from her as she dressed herself, then popped himself onto her bed with a grin.

"To spend a night drunkenly bathing with the infamous Lady Penhallow," he breathed, "simply enticing."

Rho grabbed her tankard and sat down next to Rylan, crossing her legs. "All those nobles at your heels and you choose to bathe me. I should be honoured."

"Well, of course!" He chuckled. "You're easier to clean. Not caked in make-up."

Rho giggled, letting her shoulders slump comfortably. She set her tankard down and began running her hands up and down her thighs. They were still bare from her last trip to the spa. She shuddered trying to think of scheduling another appointment anywhere in Ferelden. She glanced down at her hands and sighed.

"Oh." She said softly. She was still wearing her handwraps.

"I'll get it."

Rylan set down his mug next to hers and walked over to the chest Rho had pulled her clothes out of. He opened the chest and pulled out a small orange book. He sat back down on the bed and opened it up. There was a small square cut into the pages, taking up about a quarter of the book. He motioned for Rho's hand, and she began undoing her handwraps.

She held out her palm, and the small locket slid into Rylan's hands. They both looked at it for a moment. The silver chain looked old, and the oval shaped pendant appeared clamped shut. He placed the locket gently inside the little square, and put the book back in the chest.

Rho nodded in appreciation.

"You still write songs in that old thing?" He asked, grabbing his mug.

"Not for a while, no." She replied. "Not since we last saw Cherise."

"That long?"

Rho made a faint 'mm' sound and took a sip of her ale.

Rylan nodded in acknowledgement and proceeded to finish off his drink.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Most evenings passed by in the same manner, no matter where the guild took them. It had been like this for the last three years. To Rho, Rylan felt like a childhood friend, though she had only known him for upwards of four years. They spent most nights in the same bed, if Snake had neglected to purchase enough rooms for everyone. Sometimes they would rest together just for the company. Rylan let her sprawl out and roll around with nary a complaint, and usually left before she woke up. If Rylan was still asleep by the time she awoke, she would organize their armor and weapons in a neat pile, then wake him up with a cup of tea. They always had a peculiar and unspoken arrangement, and for the most part, it seemed to work well.

"Okay, Abbot," Rho began, "Not here to bathe me. Not here to watch me dress. What then?"

"Oh, me?" Rylan looked taken aback. " _I_ just wanted to know what _really_ happened up in that hut."

Rho glared at him. His gaze was stern, but softened when she looked him in the eyes. He propped himself up so his legs were cross-legged as well, and turned his body towards her.

"It was a bad kill." She said, looking down at her knees.

Rylan continued to stare at her in silence.

"I don't know. He was a prick, and -"

"I don't care about that," Rylan cut in gently, "I just wanna know what else happened. You left something out."

Rho made a disgusted noise, and shoved him lightly.

"Pretty eyes beguile, my lady, but they do not lie." He grinned.

Rho flushed and nudged him again. "I did get something kinda weird." She lowered her voice as she spoke.

Rylan raised an eyebrow.

She reached under the bed and grabbed one of her boots. She stuck her hand inside and pulled out one of the slips of paper. She handed it over to Rylan hesitantly.

She watched him as he scanned the paper. His eyes looked like emeralds under the torchlight. The flames gave his jawline a sturdy silhouette. Rho exhaled and looked down.

Rylan let out a long breath and mumbled the words on the note. "The Nightingale..."

Rho twiddled her thumbs, awaiting his response.

"You do know who this Nightingale is, don't you?" He said, worry overtaking his face.

"I... No I don't." She admitted.

"She could wipe out this guild without even trying."

Rylan stood up, pacing around the room. His worry turned to excitement, and Rho could see the gears turning inside his head.

"She didn't say very much, Abbot." Rho said slowly, eyeing him as he paced about.

"Do you understand what it could mean for us if she wants us on her side?" He gushed. "She's a part of the _Inquisition_ , Penhallow. Virtually untouchable."

"They are _pretty_ high up that mountain."

Rylan stopped pacing and walked over to Rho. He put his hands on her shoulders and stared into her steel-blue eyes. "You need to get her on our side."

"How am I supposed to meet her? Wait until she sends me another letter?"

"If she wants you, she'll find you." He said.

"You talk like you're best friends." Rho smirked.

" Her? Replace you? Perish the thought." A sly grin danced across his lips. "Once she sees what you can do - what we can do - she'll want us." He loosened the grip on her shoulders, and smiled at her.

"We're practically a package deal, you and I." Rho gleamed, sloshing around her ale.

Rylan put his forehead against hers and smiled drunkenly. "You know it, Penhallow."

He stood up and began putting out all of the torches around the room, then walked over to the other side of the bed. "Now, hurry up and fall asleep so I can get naked."

Rho groaned and tucked herself under the covers. "Nothing I haven't seen before, Abbot."

"Yeah, but I like to think you shy away now so you can gawk at me in a more romantic setting later."

"I'll try and pack candles next time." She yawned and wiggled around in the sheets.

She listened to Rylan quietly get undressed as her mind flew in circles. This Nightingale felt familiar, but she didn't know a thing about her. She was used to anonymous jobs, often worked solely through anonymous sources. But this woman, to have a plethora of able men, yet send her. She didn't even want to fathom what that man was caught up in. Part of her hoped that this Nightingale would look at her poor kill and rethink her motives. Regardless, she admired any woman who would have the patience to train a raven.


End file.
